


One Hit Per Headbanger

by jericho



Category: Backstreet Boys, NSYNC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:37:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jericho/pseuds/jericho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a silly little thing based on the movie "Go," designed to make me giggle and snort while I wrote it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short series I wrote using the plot and some of my favorite lines from the movie Go, with the characters replaced by members of *NSYNC and BSB. No, there really is no point.
> 
> "Go" was written by screenwriting god John August. This isn't supposed to be the heaviest or most original thing ever written. I just wrote it because the idea of it made me snicker.
> 
> Rated: R. A little sex, a very wired JC, gay diva soap opera actors and many, many uses of the word "fuck."

There was no logical way to describe what it was like to be on for 14 hours, staring at the same fluorescent lights hanging over top of the same rows of canned goods, bottled water, stacks of toilet paper. In another life, Justin thought he could be a rock star. But his dream had peeled, layer by layer, until he was willing to settle on basic survival. 

So that was where he was at. Fourteen hours into a shift at A&P, limbs like lead, eyelids drooping more and more with each customer who came through with a fistful of coupons. He wouldn't even mind if he was stacking boxes. Well, he would mind, but not as much. At least then he could be getting exercise, improving the muscles in his arms, doing something monotonous enough that he could actually think about other stuff. But one of the usual cashier girls had gone into labor, and she was at the hospital with her 15-year-old legs locked into stirrups, waiting for a baby to come out. One of them had to go up front, and JC and Lance had managed to duck behind a stack of potato chips when the manager exploded around the corner and bellowed "Who's up front?" 

Justin checked his watch, held in place by a neon green string he'd twisted around it. He needed a new watch, big time, but there were a thousand other things he needed before he could splurge on a watch. Like paying rent. If he didn't come up with the money by tomorrow, his ass would be on the streets. Again. 

Five minutes before break. He rang in cat food. Diapers. More coupons. Bags of milk. Apple juice. More coupons. Four minutes. Glade candles. Nail files. Frozen yogurt. Three minutes. 

"Smoke!" JC called, lunging over the little barrier that separated Justin from the customers. 

"Three more minutes," Justin protested. 

"Fuck it. You're worth it." 

JC was right, Justin realized. He was worth it. 

Thirty seconds later he found himself leaning against the lockers in the back, sucking on his Marlboro, watching JC wrestle a can of whipped cream from one of the shelves just as a customer tried to grab it. Justin's shift was almost done. Bed was pulling him. And then maybe, a little later, the Christmas rave. A nice hit of Ecstasy to wake him up again. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and saw that hollow-eyed look that could only come from someone who had been on for 14 hours. 

Chris bounded around the corner, doing a muscle man pose for no other reason than that he had an audience. Chris winked quickly and snapped his fingers in Lance's direction. "Lance!" 

"No," Lance said firmly. 

"Come on..." 

"No," Lance repeated. "I already told you." 

Chris stood up straight and scanned the dank little room, eyes skittering past JC, who was now sucking whipped cream out of one of the cans. "Justin!" 

"Don't," Lance said. "He's been on for 14 hours." 

"Don't fuck with me, Kirkpatrick," Justin said, looking at Chris from under lowered lids. He flicked his ash in the empty Coke can next to him for emphasis. "I am not in a good fucking mood right now." 

"Justin is facing the trials of possible homelessness," JC chirped. 

"That's perfect, then," Chris said cheerfully. "I need someone to take my shift." 

Justin yanked off his name tag and threw it in his locker. "Fourteen hours. Lance already told you." 

"How much do you need?" 

"Three fifty," Justin said darkly, grabbing his leather jacket and sliding into it. 

"I'll pay you the cash up front. A bunch of my buddies are going to Vegas. I get to go. You get the money. It's a win-win situation." 

Win-win situation. The only win-win situation here would be a music career and the opportunity to pound Chris over the head with a big can of frozen juice. 

Justin paused, catching another glimpse of himself in the mirror. His hair looked good today. Just the right amount of blond and curl. It wouldn't look good with leaves in it from sleeping on the street. Besides, Chris's shift would end at 6:30. That was lots of time to get some E, head to the party and still have a fine evening. He'd have to scratch the nap, but the E should take care of that. 

"Fine," Justin said. "Show me the money." 

Chris fished some bills out of his wallet and pressed them into the palm of Justin's hand. Chris did side jobs as a deejay - DJ Skeeto, he went by, and played mostly hipster weddings and high school dances - so he could afford to pay him in cash. Maybe it was a win-win situation. Justin felt a little better all ready. 

"I'll give you an extra 20 for a blow job," Chris offered. 

"Fuck you, Chris." 

Chris turned on his heel and bounded down the hall, his body making a quick silhouette in the large doorway of the loading dock before he disappeared around the corner. 

"Five more hours," Lance said sympathetically. 

"Yeah. I can handle it. Someone give me another smoke. I'm out." 

"Have some whipped cream," JC said between mouthfuls. "That helps." 

*** 

"Rock bands, A to Z," JC said. He was always the first to initiate a musical trivia game, whether it was for fun, as a drinking game or to determine who was going to go up front. "I'll start. Abba." 

"Beastie Boys," Justin said. 

"Double word score!" JC said appreciatively. 

"Yeah. Good, JC." 

"The Cars," Lance gulped, taking another swig of his Coke. 

"Duran Duran," JC said. "Double word score!" 

Justin took a deep drag of his cigarette. "Extreme." 

"Who's Extreme?" Lance asked. 

"Rock band from the early 90s," JC said. "They had a bitchin' guitarist." 

Justin ducked his head and saw the manager through the shelves, waddling past, ready to bellow at them any minute. "He's coming. Let's pick it up." 

"We'll start at Q," JC said. "Queen." 

Justin tapped his heels against the crate, biting his lip. "That band from the 70s. What are they called? The one with Brian Ferry." 

"Roxy Music," JC replied. 

Lance threw up his hands. "You can't just give them to him! Okay, fine. Slayer." 

"Tesla," JC said. "Another hair band." 

"Um..." Justin chewed at his fingernail. Lance almost always lost this game. All Justin had to do was keep it together for a couple more letters. "Ultravox." 

"Violent Femmes," Lance said. 

"Wallflowers." 

X. What fucking band name started with X? "Um..." Justin chewed his fingernail harder, kicking the crate, stopping to smoke intently. "There are no band names that start with X." 

"Sure there are," Lance said. 

"Fuck you. Like what?" 

Lance shrugged innocently. "It's not my turn." 

The manager's head poked through the shelves, his face beet red like he was on the verge of a heart attack. "Break's over. Who's out front?" 

"Justin," JC and Lance said in unison. 

***

Sixteen hours. He'd been on for 16 hours. That was almost an entire day, he figured. And most of it had been spent up front. A street kid came through, counting out his pennies with shaking hands, track marks showing as he bought a pack of cigarettes. Justin was still watching him with lethargic eyes when JC sailed by. 

"XTC." 

Justin turned. "Huh?" 

"A band that starts with X. XTC." 

Justin rolled his eyes and turned back to the street kid, finally sliding the change across the counter and counting it out himself. He dropped the pennies in his drawer and handed the kid a pack of cigarettes. 

"Good band. I saw them at the Palaise Royale a few years ago." 

Justin looked up and found some little guy with a big smile, watching him intently. "What?" Justin asked. 

"Yeah. They were playing with...who was it?" He looked at the big blond guy behind him. "Kajagoogoo? I can't remember. I was pretty wasted." He looked back at Justin and smiled. 

"Good for you," Justin mumbled. He grabbed a can of orange juice off the conveyor belt and ran it through, looking again to see about eight more cans of orange juice behind it. 

The blond guy leaned in, fixing Justin with the cheesiest, most fake smile Justin had seen in awhile. "Does that deejay still work here?" 

"Yeah," Justin said, hauling another can of orange juice through. "He's gone to Vegas for the weekend." 

"Oh." The little guy nodded, smiled, glanced at the blond guy and smiled again. "You don't know where we could get anything to go with this orange juice, do you?" 

Justin concentrated on bagging the cans, too tired to even look up. "We have a wide assortment of things that could go with orange juice. Bacon. Eggs. A fine variety of cereal." 

The little guy leaned forward, and Justin caught a whiff of his cologne. Dark and sweet, like this guy spent a lot of time in front of the mirror. "See," he said in a low voice, "the deejay usually hooks us up." 

Justin shrugged a little, but he had to admit that his curiosity was piqued. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah. See, we have 20 friends, and we're going to this party tonight. We're kind of high and dry." 

"Sorry to hear that." 

Then it was the blond guy's turn, like they were switch hitting. "If you could do anything at all..." 

Justin stopped. Glanced up at them. The blond guy looked a little clueless. The little guy had an honest face, and a smile that was way too open to be fucking around with him. Justin paused, saw his manager drift by, saw JC and Lance in the distance, stocking the boxes of Melba Toast, giggling a little while they did it. Then he looked back at the guys. 

Rent. 

Eviction. 

Leaves in his hair. 

"Give me your number," Justin said. "I'll see what I can do." 

"Awesome," the little guy said, grinning again. Justin didn't think anyone used the word "awesome" anymore. 

*** 

They sat parked outside one of the low rises in Hollywood, staring at the barred windows, the exterior painted dirty pink, the overgrown leaves and vines winding their way around the gate. "You are crazy," Lance said in a low voice. 

"Lance, I have to do this," Justin said. "Unless you have $350 to lend me, I have no choice." 

Lance bit his fingernail again. Studied his knees. "You're gonna get us killed." 

"Would you quit whining? I am _not_ going to get us killed. We're talking about Ecstasy, not crack. It's just 20 hits of Ecstasy. No big deal." 

JC tapped the steering wheel, already fidgeting to get going with his night. "I still say you're crazy..." 

"Whatever. You guys sit here and wait for me. I'm going to go in and be proactive. Chris isn't the only one who can buy E. I'll explain it to him when he gets back." 

Justin climbed out of the car, and the door shut behind him with a metallic slam. He crossed the street, and the entire world seemed to be going in slow motion. Scary music played in his head, and his heart thumped against his rib cage. 

He hit the buzzer and heard a gravelly voice on the other end. "Yeah?" 

"This is Justin. I'm a friend of Chris's. I wanted to talk to you for a second." 

There was a long pause before the buzzer sounded. Justin yanked open the gate and went in. And it was too late now. He had to see this through. 

He entered the apartment to a haze of cigarette smoke, and loud, thumping music playing on the stereo. He could see the tattooed arm from the doorway, holding a cigarette in the air, a thin trail of blue smoke rising from it to join the rest of the cloud. 

"Justin. What brings you here? Social call?" 

"Um, no." Justin crossed the room slowly, more of the face becoming visible as he walked, until he had finally stopped in front of the couch. Even though it was night, AJ had sunglasses perched on the end of his nose, an assortment of rolling papers and cigarette filters laid out on the coffee table in front of him. "I wanted to...I wanted to buy some Ecstasy." 

AJ remained expressionless. "I thought you were still buying hits off Chris." 

"Well, Chris is out of town and...I need 20 hits." 

AJ lowered his sunglasses. Leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "What?" 

"Twenty hits. I know these guys and they're desperate...." 

AJ's hand darted to the remote control, and suddenly the music was blaring, filling the entire room, throbbing in Justin's head. AJ leaned in, and his breath was warm against Justin's neck. "Show me your tits." 

Justin froze, watching AJ sit back on the couch and make a circular motion with his fingers. Justin tugged off his shirt with one pull, the motion making a couple of stray hairs fly. He turned slowly, the music unbearably loud, feeling AJ's eyes paint electric lines along his body. 

AJ killed the music, and Justin used the opportunity to scramble back into his shirt. "You come up here asking for 20 when 20 happens to be the magic number where possession becomes trafficking?" 

"That's not it, AJ. I would never fuck you like that." 

AJ's eyes flashed. "How would _you_ fuck _me_?" 

There was a long pause, and Justin felt a stuffed chair behind him. He flopped back into it and watched AJ's lean body stretch and stand. AJ crossed the room and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with a little bottle that looked like Aspirin, except it wasn't. 

"This is heavy shit," AJ said solemnly, pressing the bottle into Justin's hand. "I mean it. Don't let anyone double dose or their brain cells will be snapping, crackling and popping for a week, got it?" 

Justin nodded. "Got it." 

"I mean it. One hit per headbanger." AJ lit another cigarette and sat back on the couch, stretching his legs until his feet rested on the coffee table. "Three hundred." 

Justin paused. "Three hundred? I thought you sold them to Chris for 15 each." 

"Yeah, well, inflation's a bitch." 

"Look, I'll give you the money I have now, and I'll leave something with you, like as collateral. I'll get the rest off those guys and give it to you when I come back." 

AJ snorted. "See, that would be doing you a favor, and most people know that I give head before I give favors." 

"It'll be something important," Justin insisted. "Something I'd guard with my life." 

"Okay. Like what?" 

Justin bit his lip. Tapped his leg nervously. Looked over at the window. "How about a person?" 

Getting Lance into AJ's apartment was like shoving a stubborn cat into a carrier. Lance whined. He protested. He argued. He said that AJ was going to kill him while he was up there. That he didn't hang out with drug dealers. That he didn't care whether or not Justin was going to be evicted, or how much Justin had done for him. There was absolutely, positively no way a nice Christian boy from Mississippi could be persuaded to sit in the apartment of a drug dealer like AJ McLean. Not even for an hour. 

Fifteen minutes later, JC and Justin drove off to the address on the little piece of paper, leaving Lance on AJ's stuffed chair. 

*** 

Lance couldn't remember a time when he'd wanted to kill Justin more. He'd put up with Justin's ego, and Justin's so-called street-smart decisions, and Justin's instinctive need to take care of himself before anyone else. He'd found himself gagging over a toilet and way too stoned. He'd found himself talking to strange gay guys in seedy West Hollywood clubs while Justin was off targeting the object of his desire. But he'd never found himself across from a creepy guy with too many tattoos and sunglasses he refused to remove. 

Lance tapped his foot nervously, the pace quickening with each new song that started on the stereo. AJ watched him silently, a hint of amusement in his eyes, like Lance was a puppy someone had brought to his house. 

Lance bit his lip hard, listening to the strains of dark, hard rock oozing from the speakers. He looked up at AJ, quick enough that he didn't have to make eye contact, and motioned to the stereo. "Who is this?" 

AJ stretched his arm across the back of the couch. "Tool." 

"Oh." Lance smiled and nodded a little, studying the carpet, picking at his fingernails, wishing he weren't quite so fidgety and vanilla looking. 

AJ's voice was low. Dangerous. "You like Tool, Lance?" 

Lance forced another smile. "Tool's okay." 

"Ah," AJ said, except it sounded like "aaahhhhh." "I like Tool a lot." 

Lance bit his lip just a little harder, and he could feel the indent his teeth were making on the soft skin. Then he said the lamest thing he'd probably ever said in his life. "Do you?" 

"Oh, yeah, Lance. I prefer Tool to anything else." 

"That's nice." Lance bobbed his head a little to the music, still afraid to look at AJ, wondering if this was perhaps the single most awkward moment of his existence. 

AJ shifted a little on the couch. When he lit another cigarette, the hiss of the lighter made Lance jump a little. "Lance." 

"Yes?" 

"You have a phone sex voice. Has anyone ever told you that?" 

Lance's laugh was nervous and agitated. "Do I?" 

"Yeah. Kind of deep and lulling and sexy." 

"Thanks," Lance croaked at the carpet. "So do you. I think. I guess." 

AJ's laughter was low and it seemed to vibrate in Lance's skull. "Thank you." 

Lance almost fell out of his chair when the phone rang. AJ's arm darted out and grabbed it after half a ring. He answered it with "Parts and service." 

Lance listened to one half of what sounded like a casual conversation, looking at everything but AJ. There was a small pile of CDs on the coffee table. Stone Temple Pilots. The Ramones. Lance couldn't help but raise an eyebrow when he saw the Ronettes. 

He risked a glance at AJ and realized that AJ was studying at him. "I think so," he said into the phone. "Maybe." He took the phone away long enough to say "It's your friend Chris." 

Lance waved a little. "Hi Chris." Then he went back to smiling awkwardly at the carpet. 

"That party you're going to tonight. Is it going to be any good?" 

Lance shrugged. He knew how stupid he looked, and he'd never wanted more to just get the fuck out of an apartment. 

*** 

The house was fairly unassuming - a small, one-level square with white siding and chipping paint. Justin took a deep breath and looked at JC, who shook his head and smirked at the steering wheel. 

"Here goes nothing," Justin said. 

"You're crazy." 

"That is not the kind of affirmation I'm looking for, JC." 

JC shrugged. "Sorry. This just makes me nervous, that's all. But go do it so we can pick up Lance and get to the damn party." 

Justin nodded at the dashboard, taking one more deep breath and stepping out of the car. The neighborhood was fairly quiet for Los Angeles, as if no one lived around here at all. 

He took the steps two at a time, pounding on the door. He'd barely knocked twice when the door swung open. The guy who answered wasn't the little smiling guy or the big blond guy. It was another guy altogether. He was fairly tall, and just a little older. About 28 or 29, Justin figured. His eyes were sharp and blue, and something about them looked a little psychotic. 

"Justin?" the guy said. "Come on in." 

Justin stepped in slowly, seeing the two guys from the grocery store smiling woodenly in the background. 

"I'm Kevin," the guy said. "And I guess you already know Nick and Howie." 

"Hey," Justin greeted. 

"Hey," they replied in unison. 

"So," Kevin said. "You want a drink? Beer? Whisky? I think we might have some whisky. Do we have whisky, guys? Something with a little kick?" 

"No," Howie said. 

"Yes," Nick replied. 

Justin raised an eyebrow, but Kevin was determined. "A beer. Want a beer? I'll go get you a beer. Or do you want to do this first? You have the stuff?" 

That was a lot of questions all at once, and Justin couldn't help but blink. Howie and Nick smiled at each other nervously, like they were sharing some secret joke, then gave Justin identical grins. 

"How about some OJ?" Justin asked slowly. 

"Will do." Kevin bounded into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving Justin with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. 

"So," Howie offered. 

"Yeah," Nick said. "Busy night tonight?" 

"Um, not really. I just got off work." 

Howie shifted his weight from one foot to the other, leaning closer to Nick. "I hear this party tonight's gonna be awesome." 

Again with the "awesome," Justin thought. 

Kevin bounded back out before Justin could reply. "Sorry, guy. We're fresh out of OJ. But I brought a beer for you." 

He thrust the beer in Justin's direction, and Justin had no choice but to grab it. Justin glanced at Nick and Howie, who glanced at each other nervously again. Something was definitely wrong. 

"No!" Howie said quickly. "We got a bunch of it. Today. At the store. It's in the car. I can go get it?" 

It didn't take an expert to see the waves of mute panic spread between the three of them, making them more fidgety than ever. Justin looked down at his beer, the glass cool and moist against his fingers. "Do you have a bathroom?" 

"Yeah," Nick said. "I'll show you where it is." 

Nick slid in front of Kevin and his eyes locked with Justin's. Blue on blue. Panic on panic. And the word Nick mouthed rang through loud and clear. Impossible to misinterpret. And oh shit, oh fuck, oh God. 

Justin spilled into the bathroom, locking the door behind him and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Fuck sleeping with leaves in his hair. How about having his hair pulled in prison because he was some beefy guy's bitch? Even worse. Even worse. 

His fingers fumbled with the pill bottle, and he spilled half of them on the bathroom floor. He dropped to his knees. Picked them up. Tossed them haphazardly in the toilet with the rest of his $300. It was like flushing his apartment into the sewers. At that moment, in that state of panic, it felt like throwing his life away. 

The three of them followed Justin to the door, but it didn't matter. Justin was out and down the steps, trying to stop the shaking, just wanting to get back in the car and get the fuck out of there. Except now he had no E, no money for AJ and no chance in hell of making it out of this alive. 

  



	2. Chapter 2

JC watched Justin descend the steps, striding toward the car looking like a pissed off pit bull. Justin's face was pinched and his eyes buggy, and JC couldn't help but giggle. He felt that first wave of E-tarded-ness kicking in - the rise of energy in his body, his heart pumping a little faster, his limbs restless and telling him to move, move, move. 

"Fuck!" Justin spat when he got in the car. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. They were fucking cops, JC. Cops!" 

JC focused on the steering wheel and noticed for the first time that it was wavering. Do not look like you took two of his hits, JC thought. Do not look like you took two of his hits. The laughter bubbled inside him like lava, but he was pretty sure this wasn't the best time to giggle. He tried to straighten out his face. Tried to stop his vision from blurring. Tried not to act spastic, although he knew he couldn't hold it for long. 

He felt Justin's eyes on him, and the eyes seemed to have a depth and temperature to them, like the part of JC that they were focusing on was getting hotter. It was funny as hell. 

"JC..." 

Do not answer him, JC thought. If you answer, you'll give yourself away. 

"JC, you fucking took one, didn't you?" 

And there it was. The giggles came out like a sneeze, and pretty soon that was all he could do. He pounded the steering wheel in an attempt to stop them. Tried to straighten out his face. Tried to think of something unfunny, like dead pets or grandmothers falling down stairs. But that was funny, too. 

"Fuck you, JC. You fucking prick. I can't believe you." 

It should have been so easy to stop laughing, but it wasn't. Everything around him was wavering, and the only word of Justin's that JC could understand was "fuck." It sounded like a string of nonsense occasionally interrupted by the word "fuck." He knew then that this was strong fucking E. 

"Drive," Justin said. 

Drive. That required...what? Putting the car in gear. Putting his foot on the pedal. It was just going to take him a few seconds to figure out where everything was.... 

Justin reached over and snapped the car into gear, and it lurched forward. JC jerked back a little in his seat, and the whole thing was like a head rush. 

It could have been minutes or days that they spent driving down the streets, stopping at some point to put Justin behind the steering wheel. JC focused on the streetlights going by, the yellows blurring into one big smear. "Cool," he mumbled against the window. 

Next thing he knew he was standing in a supermarket, watching shoppers maneuver carts up and down aisles, the fluorescent lights swirling and dipping in front of him. Then he was back in the car, head swimming, grooving down the road, trying to focus on the two different kinds of over-the-counter pills Justin was holding out, trying to tell him which one looked more like the E he'd swallowed. And he couldn't remember. He never actually looked at pills before he put them in his mouth, except for the little purple hits Chris sold them sometimes that had Pokemon characters on them. 

"Pokemon," JC said. 

"What?" 

"Pokemon!" 

"Whatever, JC." 

They were driving. Where, JC wasn't sure. But they were definitely in motion. At one point JC thought he might actually be driving the car. Then he realized that he was on the wrong side, so he lowered his arms, because for a few seconds, he was actually moving them as if he was driving. 

"Man," JC mumbled, pressing his face against the window. "I am so fucking high." 

"No shit," Justin snapped. "You're gonna be sketchy for days." 

JC snorted against the glass. 

"If you wig out on me, I'm just gonna pull up to the emergency room and push you out the door. I swear to God." 

"Thanks," JC said. Justin was such a great friend. So cute and pretty and such a great friend. JC wanted to hug him. Maybe even kiss him. Just tell Justin how great he was. But as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, he forgot what he was going to say. 

"Out of the car," Justin said. "And try to act normal." 

JC hadn't even realized the car had stopped. He opened the door and leaned out just to make sure the ground wasn't moving. When his feet were planted firmly on the street, he followed Justin into the building. Which building? Oh yeah. The drug dealer building. Oh my God. 

And then he was in a living room, talking to a cat, although no one else could hear them. He heard Justin in the distance, saying something about AJ giving him head. Justin had returned the E, except he hadn't returned the E at all. He'd returned Aspirin shaped somewhat like E. 

Then they were back in the car, with Lance this time. Lance was bitching, and they were arguing in the front. JC sat in the back, trying to fight down the first wave of nausea, and just wanted to get to the party. 

*** 

"Okay," Kevin said, standing in the middle of the room and breathing deeply. "Let's keep it calm. We'll get the next one." 

Howie cast a wide-eyed glance at Nick. 

"We're still cool, right?" Nick said. "I mean, you're still gonna drop the charges, right?" And Howie was glad that Nick asked, because he didn't have the guts to. 

Kevin nodded abruptly. "Yeah. No big deal. Hey, want a handcuff demonstration?" 

Before there was a chance for either of them to say no, Kevin had Nick pinned against the door, yanking Nick's arms back until his wrists were together. Then there was the cold snap of metal against metal, and Howie could only watch and gape. 

"It's all in the wrist," Kevin explained with a hint of Kentucky twang. His hand skittered up Nick's side and stopped, squeezing and groping a little. "Hey, you have a pretty good body. Do you work out?" 

"Sometimes," Nick mumbled against the door. "Can you...take these off now?" 

Kevin fished the key out of his pocket, the palm of his hand still pressed between Nick's shoulders. "You have a pretty good body, too, for a little guy," he told Howie. 

Howie gulped. "Thanks." 

"You got a girlfriend?" 

Howie's eyes met with Nick's and saw a mute panic, and they might as well have screamed "Take these fucking things off me." 

"Yeah," Howie said. 

"What's she look like?" 

Howie looked from Nick to Kevin and back again, wishing he were a bit bigger and more intimidating. "Tall. Blond." 

"Sounds like a real looker." Kevin twisted the key in the handcuffs and Nick's wrists were sprung free. Nick cursed under his breath and stood up straight, rubbing at his wrists. 

"Is she faithful?" Kevin asked, not seeming to notice Nick's discomfort and, at this point, slight annoyance. 

"No," Howie said slowly. "She's...not." 

"How do you know?" 

Howie's eyes still darted back and forth between Kevin and Nick, and he wasn't sure which expression he'd rather see - Kevin's disturbing interest, or Nick's narrowed eyes and slight scowl. 

"Yeah, Howie," Nick said. "How do you know?" 

"I found underwear that wasn't mine." 

And in front of Kevin, there was just no debating that one. But that didn't mean that Nick left it alone entirely. "Yeah, but you're cheating on her, too," Nick said. 

"Only after I found out she was cheating on me." 

Nick and Howie locked eyes, and Howie couldn't be bothered to be subtle about it. He wondered if he and Nick were going to have it out right there in the middle of the botched drug bust. 

"Do you know who she was cheating with?" Nick asked. 

"No, but I have an idea." 

All at once, Kevin seemed to get bored of the conversation. He clapped his hands together once and nodded to the door. "Look, it's Christmas Eve. You guys are good Christians, right?" 

Howie and Nick shrugged in unison. 

"Well, my significant other and I decided to have Christmas dinner tonight, since we're both so busy tomorrow. Work and all, you know. How about you guys come over and have dinner with us, and then we'll sign the papers? How about that?" 

"Well, I...." Nick said. 

"We really couldn't...." Howie said. 

"Oh, come on," Kevin urged. "It's Christmas Eve. I won't take no for an answer." 

And Howie had no doubt about that. 

*** 

The Christmas rave was at a large warehouse outside of the city, far enough into the edges of the urban sprawl that there were very few buildings around it. When they got there, the parking lot was already packed, drunk and stoned people even younger than Justin tripping around the cars. The second they stepped out of the car, they could hear the thump of the music inside. The door was decorated with a giant Santa, his spread legs surrounding the entrance. 

"That's just sick," Lance said. "You have to walk through Santa's legs to get in." 

On the other side of Lance, JC giggled madly. 

Justin wasn't paying attention. He was too busy poking the little white pills out of the foil, cupping them in the palm of his hand and pouring them into an empty Aspirin bottle. 

Lance eyed him. "What are you doing?" 

"Making my fucking rent money," Justin mumbled, extracting another sheet of allergy medication and popping the pills out of the sleeve. He capped the bottle and pushed himself off the car. "Come on." 

The second they started to walk, JC darted off between the cars, spreading his arms in the air and running toward the warehouse. "Forget him," Justin said. "He's so E-tarded right now that he'd fuck up everything anyway." 

They walked through little Hondas with chipping paint, and large station wagons that obviously belonged to parents who didn't know where their kids were. Justin stopped instinctively and banged his fist against the door of a big gray van. 

A blond guy poked his head out. "Yeah?" 

"I'm Randy," Justin said. "This is Jamie. We were wondering if you guys wanted to party." 

Twenty minutes later they were huddled in the van with five guys, all of whom were chatting excitedly and just seemed happy as shit to be there. They'd already been introduced - Dan, Ashley, Erik and Justin couldn't remember the names of the other two. 

"Where are you guys from, man?" Erik asked. 

Lance blinked. "Here. We live here." 

"Oh." Erik nodded slowly, pausing to pass on the bong. "We're from Orlando. We're out here cuz we got this singing group. We called it O-Town." 

"What a stupid fucking name," Lance mumbled, and Justin elbowed him hard in the ribs. 

"All the E in LA is like this," Justin said. "It's really smooth. Like, you barely realize it's happening to you." He looked over at Ashley, who like Dan was tripping hard on allergy medication. 

"Yeah," Ashley said, his voice breathy. "It's like...a rush. Energy. It's like...peace." 

Lance snickered again and Justin elbowed him even harder. 

"You know what helps?" Justin asked. "If you take it with a lot of pot. Like, a _lot_ of pot." 

Erik reached across the van, grabbing blindly at Justin. "Okay, give me one. I'll take it." 

"That's my man." Justin smiled and tipped the container, another pill spilling into his hand. "Careful, though," he said. "One hit per headbanger." 

*** 

Kevin lived in a tidy little house on a quiet block. Two new Volvos were parked in the driveway. "We keep our address and number unlisted," Kevin said matter of factly. "Being a cop, you know. Lots of thugs out there want a piece of you." 

Howie nodded politely and climbed the steps behind Nick, noticing a little wooden ornament of a poodle on the front lawn. The house numbers were shiny and gold, and Howie just knew that Kevin's wife was going to be a perky Donna Reid type. 

Kevin opened the door and wiped his shoes on the welcome mat. "Hi, honey," he called. "I'm home." 

"In the kitchen," someone called. It was a low voice. Almost a deep one. It sounded like...a guy. 

Howie shot Nick a look, who shrugged in response. The look in Nick's eyes was a little terrified, and Howie knew how he felt. 

"I brought our company," Kevin said. 

And then the person in the kitchen rounded the corner, and it _was_ a guy. A compact-looking, athletic sort of guy with short honey blond hair and an unnaturally large smile. "Welcome to our house." 

Howie froze. Nick froze. Under any other circumstances, Howie knew he'd start to laugh, but a criminal record was at stake here. 

Nick's voice was high and unnatural. "I thought you had a wife." 

"I said 'significant other,'" Kevin said. "You don't mind, do you?" 

And again, they spoke at the same time. "No!" 

"It's cool," Howie said. "My cousin's gay." 

"Mine too," Nick added. "And another one we've never been sure about. It's totally cool." 

"Totally," Howie agreed. "I've seen every film Rupert Everett's ever made." 

Nick's face was painted with a lopsided grin. "He has." 

Howie wondered if it was possible to take a time out to bang his head against the wall. But Kevin charged ahead. 

"This is Brian," Kevin said proudly, putting his arm around the blond guy. "Brian's a hell of a cook." 

"I bet," Howie said, but his voice wasn't working very well. 

Kevin released Brian from his grip and gave what was probably his equivalent of a warm smile. "Come on," he said. "I'll show you the dogs. Tyke and Litty. They're fantastic." 

*** 

Three excruciating hours later, Nick and Howie left with armloads of Amway folders. "That was disturbing," Nick said as they hit the sidewalk. "I need to bathe and scent." 

"Can you believe they're _cousins_?" Howie asked, following a step behind. "I can't believe they told us that." 

"I guess they thought we'd relate, us being soap opera actors and all." 

"Yeah," Howie said. "Acting equals incest. Everyone knows that. That was fucked up." 

"Truly," Nick agreed. He stopped at the end of the street and dumped the Amway folders into a trash bin. "Goodbye, Amway," he sang. 

"It's Confederated Products," Howie reminded him. "It's a different company. It's a different quality of product." 

They laughed for roughly three steps before Nick narrowed his eyes and fixed Howie with a glare. "So who are you fucking?" 

"Who are _you_ fucking?" 

"That could have been my underwear, you know." 

Howie rolled his eyes. "Give me a break. You hate boxers. You're always briefs or nothing. I'm not telling you because it'll just be drama, and I mean bad, unfunny drama." 

"Fine," Nick snapped. "We'll do it at the same time." 

They stopped on the sidewalk, facing each other, and a dog barked off in the distance. 

"Okay," Howie said. "One, two...." 

"Wait! I'm not ready yet." 

Howie sighed. "Okay, ready now?" 

"Yes." 

"One, two...." 

"Joey," they said in unison. 

Howie flinched. "Joey? The guy who plays Drake?" 

Nick's jaw dropped. "You said you hated Joey!" 

"So did you. Little did I know you were cheating on me with him." 

"So were you, Latin lover boy." 

"Don't call me that." Howie threw up his hand and started walking again, feeling Nick in tow. 

"I'm gonna kick his ass," Nick said. 

"So am I. Where do we find him?" 

"Christmas rave," Nick said, and Howie could tell it was through clenched teeth. 

"Oh, so you know his schedule now?" 

"Screw you, Howie." 

"Oh, no, Nick. You're not going to be doing _that_ for awhile." 

  



	3. Chapter 3

JC had his shirt pulled up, and some girl was drawing a Christmas tree on his stomach. The marker gliding along his skin felt hallucinatory, otherworldly, and at the same time he couldn't feel it at all. He looked up at the ceiling, listening to BT, blinking slowly at the swirling lights. "Pokemon." 

He looked back down at the girl, who smiled at him. His head turned lazily until he caught a glimpse of tattoos. Sunglasses. Who the hell would be wearing sunglasses at a rave? It was already dark. Some loser. 

Oh no. 

JC looked again. Tried to focus. "Oh, fuck." He yanked himself away from the girl, and the marker made a long green streak across his body. He pushed through the crowd, but everyone looked the same. It was just shoulders and heads and hands, like he was in a sea of people with no life preserver. 

And then he caught a glimpse of a lean, tanned arm. A shock of blond curly hair. Justin was dancing in the middle of the crowd, moving his body with the same sleekness and sensuality that he did everything. He had a cup raised above his head, probably containing a straight shot of something. He looked absolutely beautiful. 

But wait! That wasn't what JC was here for. Drug dealer. Drug dealer on his tail. 

JC grabbed Justin's arm, digging his fingertips into the warm skin. "Over there," he shouted over the music. "Over there." 

Justin followed JC's line of vision and his face went slack. "Oh fuck." 

"Oh fuck," JC repeated, like a parrot. 

"Oh fuck." 

"Oh fuck." 

Justin grabbed JC's arm, yanking him off balance as he tugged him through the crowd. They were pushed back and forth from the sea of bodies, and Justin led them behind the stage, past a deejay who was lost in his own rhythm, the swirling whore-red lights moving to their own bass line. 

He felt Justin tug him through the alley, but the E had kicked in, and in very full force. Everything seemed to be one massive blur, like there were colors but no objects, and textures but nothing to grip. "You're getting sick," Justin said from underwater, and then JC _was_ getting sick, emptying his stomach in the alley, the dirt gritty on his knees and the rainwater from earlier that week soaking through his pants. 

"Look," Justin said, tugging JC along before JC had time to wipe his mouth. "Wait here for me. I'll go get the car. Don't move. You promise?" 

JC nodded violently, and he felt Justin sit him down amongst a pile of old metal siding. "Don't move or you're dead," Justin said. "He'll see you and you'll be dead." 

"Okay," JC mumbled, still wiping at his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. "Okay, Justin." 

"Cool. Good boy." 

A sheet of metal was rested in front of him, like he was in his own little fort, and then Justin was gone. JC didn't see him leave, but he knew he was gone. And he was a good boy. Justin had called him a good boy. 

*** 

Howie and Nick stood in line in the VIP area, waiting for booze. Howie thought he might get a nice shot of rum and...hell, no mix. Just rum. It was, after all, Christmas. He knew Nick would ask for something too swanky for a bar that consisted of a big cooler and a wooden card table. 

"Do you have any Tia Maria?" Nick asked the bartender in the spandex shirt. 

The girl smirked. "What?" 

"He'll take a beer," Howie yelled over the music, glancing at Nick and smiling a little. Nick smiled back, and Howie thought they might just be okay now. 

Howie turned to survey the room, which was a mass of people and lights and dancers with enormous pupils. He'd never been into the trendy rave drugs, really. The most he'd ever done was weed, which he'd unfortunately been caught with. But that charge was erased now. That was all over. 

He felt a set of warm fingers tug at his hair, pulling it away from his neck. Then a set of warm lips planted a kiss where his neck met his shoulder. He knew from the lips that it was Joey. He turned slightly and saw Joey's big grin, his shock of dyed red hair that he checked in the mirror about 18 times a day. 

"Hey, Superman," Howie said with a smile. He leaned back a little when Joey kissed him, enjoying it one last time before they burned the bastard. 

Nick rested his hand on Joey's shoulder, and Joey turned and gave Nick the same lusty smile. Then he realized that they were both there, and that they both must know, and his eyes widened. 

"Hey there, Dr. Drake," Nick grinned, and Howie held Joey still while Nick chopped off the perfectly cultivated dye job. 

They walked back to the car bent over from giggles, still reeling over the image of Joey standing in the middle of the licensed area, mouth open in shock. "Let's get the hell out of here," Howie said. "It's been a long day." 

They stopped at the metallic purple Corvette, Howie sliding behind the steering wheel and smiling when he started the car and it purred like a lion. Nick fastened his seatbelt and smirked at Howie. "Let's go home and fuck." 

Howie grinned back. "You'd better believe it." 

*** 

Justin ran through the rows of cars, breathing labored not from the physical strain but from the panic. He wondered if AJ would cut off one of his fingers, like in the mobster movies. Or maybe AJ would put a nice, clean bullet in his head. Or maybe he could explain. He'd always been able to explain to other people. AJ couldn't be a completely illogical guy, could he? Certainly he'd been in fuck-ups like this himself. 

He ran between a Corolla and a Ford Taurus and bumped straight into AJ. "Hello, Justin," AJ said, his voice low and smooth. "How are sales?" 

"AJ," Justin breathed. "I can explain. See, the people I was going to sell it to...they were cops...." 

"Sure," AJ said easily. "I understand. It was a unique situation, blah blah blah. Unfortunately, I don't have a lot of need for Tylenol." 

Justin fumbled in his pocket. "I have the money. I have more than what I owe you. I'll give it to you and we'll all be happy, right?" 

AJ pretended to think about it. "Now, see, _that_ would be giving you head." 

"I'll give you head," Justin blurted. He was desperate now, willing to say anything to stop AJ from killing him. AJ's hand was fumbling in his pocket, and it came out with a small, sleek pistol. Fuck. "I'll give you anything you want." 

"You'll give me head," AJ said, his voice thick with amusement. "And how would that make me any different from any other guy in Hollywood?" 

And then the gun was raised, the barrel pointed right at Justin's head. Justin walked slowly backward, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the trigger as possible. But AJ walked closer, moving at the same pace. Justin could outrun a lot of things, but he knew he couldn't outrun a bullet. 

"Please. Please, AJ. Just let me...." 

Then there was the screech of tires, and a sonic boom, and Justin knew somewhere in his brain that he'd been hit by a car, but everything went black. 

*** 

"Jesus!" Nick screamed as the body hit the windshield. "Stop!" 

Howie slammed on the brakes. The car fishtailed and faced the deep ditch at the end of the parking lot. The wiper blades started, hitting the body in the head once before the victim thumped onto the hood and slid off like a pancake. 

"Oh my God," Nick moaned. There was a guy with tattoos and sunglasses staring at them, head cocked, gun dangling from his fingers. Howie saw him too and wailed like a woman. 

"Go!" Nick screamed. "Go, motherfucker! Go!" 

Howie crunched the gear shift, and the car lurched backward, narrowly missing the guy with the gun. "Go!" Nick yelled, like he was cheering on a horse and had just bet his life savings. "Fucking go!" 

"I'm fucking going!" 

The car lurched forward and sped away with every ounce of its Corvette strength. "Oh my God," Howie moaned. "We just killed someone. We just killed someone. We just killed someone." 

"We didn't kill someone," Nick said. "We hit someone. Just keep going." 

"But what if he's...." 

"Hello? Guy with a gun back there. Drive." 

They sped off down the highway, the beginnings of a rainstorm pelting the windows with crystal drops. Howie was sniffling hard, and Nick knew he was going to have to take control of the situation. 

"Okay," Nick said slowly. "He might be dead. He might not. If he's not, there was a big guy with a gun back there who really looked like he wanted to kill him. So either way, he's dead." 

"And we killed him," Howie moaned. 

"Maybe. Maybe not. Let's keep this in...in...." 

"Perspective, Nick! The word is perspective! And I am not in as light of a mood as you are right now. I have a piece of scalp on my windshield." 

"It'll come off." 

"That is not what I'm talking about!" 

Nick sighed deeply. "I know. I know. Okay." He pressed his forehead to the window, watching the cars slide by on the wet road. "Do you want to go back?" 

"Yes, I want to go back." 

"What if the guy with the gun is there?" 

"Then we drive away again. If he's not, we see if the guy we hit is dead." 

"Fine," Nick grumbled. "Turn around." 

Ten minutes later they were standing at the top of the ditch, looking down at the broken and bloodied body of the kid who almost sold them drugs. 

"It's that guy," Howie said, crying in earnest now. 

"Yeah. That's a bitch, man." 

Howie inhaled a long, shaky breath. "We're taking him to the hospital." 

"Fine. Let's go get him." Nick trudged down the embankment, the weeds soaking the bottoms of his pant legs. He got to the bottom and saw that Justin was shaking and unconscious. Alive, but not far from dead. 

"Come on," Nick ordered. "Help me out here." 

"I can't," Howie sobbed, tears streaming down his face, hands moving to cover his eyes. 

"Come on, Howie," Nick said, adopting his most soothing voice. "This is just a scene. You know your lines, right? Say your lines. See those lights over there? Those are the spotlights. All we have to do is get through this one scene and it's all over." 

Howie didn't move. 

"There's Mary from wardrobe over there. Say 'hi Mary.'" 

"Hi, Mary," Howie sniffled. Then he flinched and glared at Nick. "I am not delusional!" 

"Then grab his fucking arms!" 

  



	4. Chapter 4

What a night. 

What a long, long night. 

Lance had lost track of Justin sometime around 1 a.m., after Justin announced proudly that he'd made enough to pay his rent plus $75 left over. He'd seen JC skittering around, stuck in his own world of trance music and too much Ecstasy, but he hadn't seen JC in a long time, either. The sun was coming up, painting everything a light gray. Lance hated this time of the morning. It was that time when you knew that you'd stayed up too late, and you knew your day was going to be shot because you'd wake up around four o'clock in the afternoon. Only insomniacs and hardcore partiers saw this hour - the hour that had you stuck between asleep and awake, hallucation and reality. 

Lance had spent the night hanging out with some actor from a soap opera his sister watched. The actor had a falling out with some of the other cast members and got his hair cut by force. Lance liked him, and gave the actor his phone number, although he knew he'd never get a call. 

He lay on the hood of Justin's car for a long time, watching everyone else leave. No one who left at that hour was tired, because they were all still high and skittish, and would probably catch three or four hours of unsatisfactory sleep before they did it all again tomorrow night. Lance hadn't taken anything but ginseng and Advil and just wanted to go to bed. 

He closed his eyes, trying to get comfortable on the car hood, and stayed like that until he felt the odd raindrop hit his nose and cheeks. Then he focused on moving his tired body and slid off the car, heading across the parking lot toward the highway. 

By the time he hit the highway, it was cold and pouring rain. And where the fuck was Justin? If he was off celebrating his rent money by having raunchy gay sex with a stranger, Lance swore he would kill him. It was about a 45 minute walk to the Blue Point Diner, which is where they always met if they got separated. By the time Lance got there, only the frustration was keeping him awake. 

He walked in to find the diner nearly empty, a waitress pouring coffee and saying "how y'all doing," even though it was California. Lance nodded cordially before picking a table in the back. 

He glanced at the menu. Eggs any style, $3.95. It came with toast, bacon and home fries. But the more he thought about it, the more he just wanted coffee. 

He glanced up to find AJ McLean at a table in the corner, newspaper propped in front of him, cigarette dangling from two slender fingers. Lance bit his lip. Thought about it. It sure would make time go faster if he had someone to talk to. And in the light of day, in the Blue Point Diner, AJ looked different. His skin was smooth and pale, his sunglasses perched on the end of his nose so they showed off a pair of killer dark eyes. He looked unintimidating. Almost...cute. 

Lance got up and strode over, sliding into the booth across from AJ. He ignored the alarmed look. "Buying me breakfast?" 

AJ blinked. 

"Unless you want to sit alone. I can leave." Lance motioned to the table he'd just left, and AJ shook his head slowly. 

The waitress turned over Lance's coffee cup and filled it. The coffee was steaming and black and smelled like something alert, and Lance tipped over the other empty cup and let her fill that one too. 

AJ waited until the waitress left to speak. "What are you on?" 

"Nothing." Lance caught a whiff of his coffee and wanted to purr. 

"No, really. What are you on?" 

Lance shrugged. "Viagra." It was a flirty little comment. He wasn't even sure why he'd said it. But when he looked up, he could swore he saw AJ smile. "Just kidding," Lance added. 

"I thought so." AJ cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, letting the paper drop. Lance could almost see him thinking "okay, I'll talk to this guy." And Lance knew he would. 

***

It was crazy, lying there on the steps outside AJ's apartment. They had nothing in common. There was no way they'd ever date. But AJ, Lance had discovered, gave a hell of a hand job. 

He banged his head on the thinly carpeted steps, groaning as AJ's hand wormed its way past Lance's zipper, over the Christmas Day boxers and onto his throbbing, aching cock. Lance pulled AJ's tongue into his mouth, tasting coffee and a hint of nicotine and realizing that it wasn't entirely a bad thing, because he wouldn't expect AJ to taste like anything else. AJ slid down the steps, hands tugging Lance's pants along with him, and then AJ's mouth was on his cock, and oh, God, it was a perfect Christmas morning. 

Lance's mother had always taught him good Southern values, and that included not judging people. So just for good measure, Lance gave AJ his phone number, too. 

***

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Justin hobbled into work, trying to put his weight on his one good leg. He'd woken up in the hospital, dumped there by God knew who. He remembered AJ coming after him with a gun, and getting hit by a car. That was it. 

Just to keep his karma intact, because he knew he'd need it, Justin went up front without bitching. He carried the drawer with him, dumping it in the cash register and smiling a little at Lance's alarmed look. 

"What happened to you?" Lance asked. 

"Don't ask. Long story." 

"Oh yeah? Well I got laid." 

"Good for you, Lance." Justin slammed the drawer shut and already wished it was time for a smoke break. 

"So where's JC?" 

Justin's eyes widened. "You mean he's not with you?" 

"No." 

"Oh my fucking God." 

They found JC huddled under the metal siding, exactly where Justin had left him. He was shaking, eyes wild, rainwater dripping from his bangs. 

"Oh, JC." Justin pulled him to his feet, wrapping him in a huge hug. "I'm sorry, buddy. I'm so sorry." 

"It's okay," JC said, his body shaking and skittish in Justin's arms. "Did we get 'em?" 

"Yeah. Sort of. Let's go." 

Justin walked through the empty parking lot with his arms around JC, hobbling alongside the shaking mass that was his friend. "What happened to you?" JC asked through chattering teeth. "You look like shit." 

Justin couldn't help but laugh. "Well, you've looked better, too." 

JC climbed into the backseat, grabbing the old army blanket he kept there and wrapping it around his shoulders. Justin got in the driver's seat, buckling his seatbelt in time with Lance. 

"So," JC said, sticking his head through the seats. "What are we doing New Year's?" 

"Maybe there's a concert," Lance suggested. "O-Town." 

Justin smirked and started the car. The gravel crunched as they nudged toward the highway. 

"Who's O-Town?" JC asked from the back. 

"Nobody," Justin said. "Some boy band." 

"Forget that." JC's teeth chattered audibly. "Boy bands suck." 

"Fucking A to that," Justin agreed. 

"A," JC said. "Adam and the Ants. Double word score." 

"B," Lance said. "The Beatles." 

"I don't want to play that fucking game," Justin said. But he did anyway, because he just couldn't help it. 

  



End file.
